In Treatment
by HelenVanPattersonPatton
Summary: Danny Castellano has gone through a lot in his life, but he's never let it affect him. He's certainly never needed help. He's fine. Isn't he? - Set after the breakup in Be Cool and diverging from there.
1. Chapter 1

It's already rung twice before he thinks about what time it is. Danny hastily pulls the phone away, this feeling like a terrible idea suddenly, and looks for that little red icon to disconnect the call, his vision blurred at the edges.

"Hello?" He must have hit the speaker button by mistake, the voice on the line booming into his living room.

"Hey! I didn't wake you, did I?" he asks, trying to sound chipper and matching the blare.

"No. Of course not. It's not even midnight." Right. Why would anyone be asleep before midnight? "Listen, can you hang on a second? I can't really hear."

Danny nods and listens to the sounds pounding through the speaker. There are blurred conversations blended with the bass-line of a distorted song, and he should have considered Richie would be out on a Saturday night.

The sounds slowly fade and he can hear his brother breathing into the phone as he walks. "Okay, sorry about that. What's up?"

He feels like a shithead, Danny's tongue suddenly tied. "Nothing. Sorry. I wasn't thinking about how it's Saturday and you probably have a hot date. Go back to the party. I'll call you later."

"Wait, it's fine. I could use some air anyway. What's going on?"

"Nothing. Just - ya know - checking in. Seeing how my baby brother's doing, that's all. You're still with Ramon? He's treating you good?"

"You know you ask me this every time? Yes. Still with Ramon. And he treats me like a king."

"Right. Good."

Richie's silent in a way that makes Danny uncomfortable, adding to the already unpleasant way his palms are clammy and his heart is beating arrhythmically like it has been for weeks. "You want to talk to me about what happened?"

"What? Nothing happened. Is it a crime to want to see how you're doing?"

"No. I'm glad you called. I was glad when you called the three other nights this week, too." Oh. Did he do that? "I mean it, you know. I'm here whenever you need me."

This is not what he needs. He just wanted a distraction and to talk to someone he loves. And that left a painfully short list of people he can call. "I don't - I'm fine. Nothing to need."

"Okay. That's good." The line is quiet for a moment and Danny thinks he can hear waves in the background. He wouldn't mind being on a beach right now. "Dr. Lahiri still not speaking to you?"

His stomach knots and he thinks about revisiting that bottle of Scotch in the liquor cabinet he's been trying to ignore. "No, she speaks to me, but - yeah. No. She still isn't _talking_ to me."

"That sucks, bro. I'm sorry."

"Yeah." It feels like his heart is slipping through his fingers. "Thanks."

"I - Danny, I think it would be good for you to talk to someone about this."

"There's nothing left to say. And she definitely does not want to talk to me about her feelings right now. She's made that perfectly clear."

"No, with - it isn't just what happened with Dr. Lahiri. I think you should maybe speak to a therapist."

"A _thera_- are you outta your mind? I get a little sad over a woman and you think I need to see a shrink? What the hell's Florida done to your brain?"

"Well, it's not -" Richie stops to collect himself in that way he only does when he's perfectly serious and it makes Danny nervous. "You know it isn't just about this breakup. It's been a long time coming. Did you think you could ignore every messed up thing that's ever happened and it not effect you at all?"

"That's exactly what I think. I'm _fine_."

"Danny, I love you, but you're not fine. And I'm not saying you should do this for me."

"No."

"I'm saying you should do it for you."

"I don't need to do it for me!" He's getting agitated and he doesn't mean to be. Danny takes a deep breath and tries to project just how little he needs professional help. "I'm fine. Truly. I'm just going through something right now. And whining about it to some stranger is a waste of time. Gimme a few weeks and I'll be right as rain."

"Do you remember what you told me when I was going through that hard time in 8th grade?"

"No."

"You told me to find someone I trusted who didn't have a stake in my life and talk to them. That your opinion and Ma's and my friends wasn't what I needed, because you'd all be telling me what you wanted for me, and not what I needed to hear."

"Okay, yeah. That sounds like pretty good advice."

"Do you really not see where I'm going with this? I saw the counselor at school two days a week for the rest of that school year. It's what helped me finally work through Dad leaving and realize that it was okay to be me. That it was okay to come out. It saved my life, Danny. I don't know, maybe not physically, but emotionally. I worked through almost all of the fear and depression and I can't imagine how my life would be different if I hadn't had that help at that time."

"Richie-"

"It's not weak to want to be better. And I know you're not afraid of a little work. How 'bout putting that Castellano work ethic to good use, huh?"

Danny laughs in spite of himself, his brother's words catching peculiarly in his heart. It's probably stupid at this point in their lives for him to care so much about being a good role model.

"Will you think about it?"

He doesn't want to think about it. "Yeah. I mean I'll think about it. Sure."

"Okay." He can feel Richie's smile over the line, the small curling one that he gets when he's pleased and feels like he's done something right. "I'm doing a brunch thing in the morning, but call me later if you want to."

"Alright, alright. Go back to your party and have fun."

"I will." Sounds of a pulsing beat are getting louder and Richie speaks up to be heard. "Goodnight, Danny. Love you. And think about it!"

"Shut up about it already! Love you, too."

The call disconnects and Danny's surprised to find a faltering smile on his face. It doesn't last but for a moment, the silence creeping immediately back into his empty apartment. He stretches out on the sofa and squeezes his eyes shut, trying not to think about what his brother said and still ignoring the bottle in the cabinet.

He doesn't need therapy; he'll be fine on his own. Danny always is.

* * *

It isn't even three o'clock and her light has been out for over an hour. From his desk he can see the vague outline of dress in a dry cleaning bag draped over the white upholstered chair nearest the door. Mindy might be on call at the hospital today. Or she might be somewhere with the also absent Peter doing God knows what.

There's an easy way to find out, but Danny doesn't ask Betsy about her schedule anymore. Not since she stopped prefacing every answer with, _Dr. Lahiri didn't tell you?_ Now she looks at him with an irritating amount of pity and tells him all the things Mindy won't.

The intercom buzzes and he startles. "Line three is for you, Dr. Castellano."

"Did they say who it is? I'm busy." If he would stop staring at Mindy's dark office he might be able to finish this paperwork.

"No. You want me to ask?"

His jaw ticks. "No, Bets, it's fine. I'll take it."

He punches the blinking red button hard enough to make the cradle slide back an inch. "This is Dr. Castellano."

"Hi. This is Dr. Franklin's office calling to confirm your appointment for tomorrow at 3:00."

"I'm sorry. You must have the wrong number." He's about to hang up but the perky young man on the other end is jabbering on quickly in his ear.

"Oh, I am so sorry. This is not Daniel Castellano at 212-530-0639?"

"No, that's the number, but -"

"Then our records show you called two weeks ago and made this appointment. However, if you're unable to make it I'd be happy to reschedule it."

"Uh, Dr. Franklin you said?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can you hang on a second?" He drops the receiver on his desk without waiting for an answer. From the bottom drawer he pulls the two-ream thick edition of the New York City phone book. It takes him a minute skimming through the yellow pages, but there it is under the heading Medical, section TH: Franklin, Dahir & Miller - Family Therapy.

He's going to kill Richie.

"You still there?" Danny asks, pressing the phone back to his ear.

"Yeah."

"You can cancel that appointment. I won't be needing it."

"Really? That's great. We can work in some of our back log. Do you want me to go ahead and reschedule you for a better time?"

Stupidly his brother's plea rings in his head all of a sudden. "How far in advance do you have to schedule?"

"Right now for new patients it's just two months, but most times it's three. I can call you if I have cancellation before then."

"Is that how I got this appointment? A cancellation?"

There's silence on the end of the line and asking questions like this when he is the one assumed to have made the appointment makes him look like he needs professional help for sure. "Yes, sir. We put your name on the list and called when this appointment came available. Are you sure you want to cancel it?"

"I - uh. No. Don't cancel it. You said 3:00?"

* * *

His hands are sweating by the time he is called back. The second floor office looks like little has changed from when it was built. Save for the thin interior walls blocking off tiny pockets of space, it is all darkly worn hardwood floors and exposed brick. The woman guiding leads him to the only spacious room he's seen and closes the door as she goes, leaving him there to fend for himself.

There's a tall, slender woman standing behind a wooden desk, one of those sleek things that he can never tell if they're new and fashionable or if someone left it there in 1962 and no one thought to get a new one. Judging by the way the rest of the room looks with it's cleverly intentional mix of art and books, and by the way the doctor, with her bluntly cut, chin-length black hair is dressed like that woman on one of those shows Mindy loves - the one in D.C. where the lady wears only white despite drinking exclusively red wine - Danny would guess that nothing in the room is unintentional.

"Mr. Castellano, come in. I'm Dr. Franklin." She smiles warmly at him.  
"It's Doctor actually, but please, call me Danny," he says, stepping further into the space.

"Certainly, Danny, if that will make you more comfortable." Shit, she's already psychoanalyzing him. He's going to have to watch everything he says, isn't he? She extends her hand, long and narrow with shortly clipped fingernails, and he accepts it firmly. "I'll extend the same professional courtesy. Please call me Mindy."

He jerks his hand from her grasp. "What did you say?"

The doctor raises a delicately arched eyebrow and repeats herself slowly. "You can call me Mindy." If this is Richie's idea of a joke he's fucking sick. "If there's a problem with that, Dr. Franklin is fine too."

"No, of course not. Just -" how does he ask if this is a weird test his kid brother set up without sounding paranoid? "Mindy's just an unusual name. You don't hear it very often."

"That's true." She smiles again, that easy smile Danny's sure she has honed to instill the utmost comfort and trust in her patients. It isn't bad. "It's a nickname I picked up in school. Much easier to be a Mindy in a class full of Jennifers, Tiffanys and Heathers than it was to be a Melinda."

He uncurls his fingers and forces himself to be calm. Like this isn't the stupidest thing he's ever done. "I could see that."

"Have a seat." She gestures to two plush, camel-colored leather chairs with teak accents by the window, and he feels a little silly for assuming that there would be a sofa for him to lie on. They're facing each other, but the chairs are turned slightly so it doesn't feel like a standoff, the bricked-in fireplace behind her desk just as much in his eye-line as she is. "Tell me a little about yourself, Danny."

"Um," he wipes his palms on his jeans, not knowing exactly where to start with this. Maybe his childhood? "I guess my dad leaving when I was thirteen was a pretty big deal. I don't know. Other kids had parents who flaked - my buddy Raymond's mom." He shrugs not knowing what this lady thinks she can fix about this, but that's her problem. "We did okay."

"I appreciate you jumping right in there. Shows a lot of initiative. But let's start with some basics first, okay? Easy stuff like if you're from New York, married, kids, things like that. Tell me about Danny."

Well that's easy enough. It's a total waste of money spending his hour talking about what schools he went to, but his copay isn't much. "Okay. I'm from New York. Staten Island. Went to Columbia and have an OB/GYN practice. Divorced."

"And very concise."

"Is that wrong?"

"No," she laughs. "It's not wrong. No one is judging you here. You're very to the point. It's not a bad trait." Danny exhales and feels oddly relieved hearing her say she's not judging him. Clearly she is, but he appreciates the illusion of digression. "Is there any of that you would like to expound upon? Or do you want to move on?"

"No. I can talk about it more. I - uh - I met my ex-wife my third year in medical school. I had seen her at this place - a pizza place - a few times before I got the nerve to ask her out. Just picture very tall, very blond, and intense - way out of my league. We got super serious really quick and got married the day I graduated. Which was a horrible idea in hindsight, doing it all in the same day. But my whole family was already in Manhattan, so..." It had rained that afternoon. His Aunt Teresa told him it was a good omen. "We divorced in 2008."

Dr. Franklin jots something on the leather-bound legal pad balanced on her knee, her legs crossed.

"Do you want me to talk more about that?"

"Whatever you feel like sharing is fine."

He nods and can't think of anything to add about his marriage. It was fine. Until it wasn't. "No kids. We didn't have kids. I wanted to wait until I had gotten a little more established and would have more time with them, so we waited. I found out when we were divorcing that she never wanted kids, so. . . I guess that's a good thing it didn't happen."

"Is that something you still want?"

The question takes him by surprise, the kind of thing he expects his Ma to ask, not a therapist. "No."

She makes another note and waits for him.

"I have a brother. Richie. I helped bring him up." He doesn't say it, but he feels like that can be enough for him. And Richie will settle down and have kids one day. This will be his legacy. He'll be able to see himself in his brother's parenting skills.

"You two are close?"

"Yeah. He - he actually is the one who made this appointment for me."

"It sounds like you care about each other a lot. That's great. It's good to have a support system around you. Everyone needs that."

Danny shrugs and looks at the fireplace, not sure he'd call his brother a whole system.

"Do you disagree?"

His eyes snap back to her. "No. I don't - it is good to have a whole system." Danny rubs his shoe against the thick pile of the rug and watches as it pushes the threads at an angle, leaving an imprint. Dr. Franklin is annoyingly patient. "I had a. . . falling out. With my best friend. We haven't really been speaking."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Do you want to speak with them?"

"God yes. I miss - Yes."

"Then talk to them. You say best friend, chances are they want to talk to you too."

"No. Trust me. She does not want to talk to me right now."

"Would you like to talk about the problem?"

Danny clenches his jaw and tries not to spit back an acerbic response. That's what they are doing. He _is_ the problem.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes:**

_This chapter includes a slur which may be a trigger for some. It was written with the utmost consideration and is included for reasons important to the plot. No offense is intended. Please be advised._

* * *

There's nothing but the sound of rushing water and whirl of his own heartbeat in his ears, pounding loud and fast like a healthy heart on a fetal monitor. Danny breaks the surface, sucking in lungs full of chlorinated air at the same moment his fingertips reach the tile, and he flips, his arm stroking out, muscles quaking with exhaustion as he pushes for one more lap. Just one more. He can do one more.

He does sixteen more.

Danny clings to the edge of the pool letting his body float, his face pressed against the cool ceramic. His watch is lying on top of the towel in front of him. He wants to reach for it, to find that he's let the time get away from him, that there's no way he can possibility make it. He wants it to be an honest mistake.

Once he catches his breath, the sound echoing inside the unusually deserted indoor pool at the Y, Danny can't wait any longer. He lifts himself up and drapes the towel over his shoulders before looking. It's 2:33. Damn it. There's plenty of time still.

After the first time he thought the feeling was a fluke, just something he had to get used to. He felt good by the time the second appointment came. He would be fine. Except he hadn't been. The second appointment had been nearly two weeks ago and it has taken all twelve days for Danny to not feel raw, like an exposed nerve.

He feels okay right now, like he can take a deep breath and things are normal, he's normal, and he doesn't want to go back and fuck that up. It clearly isn't helping if he feels more miserable than ever afterward.

Danny walks into the showers resolved to blowing off the appointment. Fuck it.

Danny walks out of the showers remembering that only weak men blow off their commitments. He hates himself. He's going to therapy.

* * *

"Good afternoon, Danny. How are you doing today?" Dr. Franklin is unusably chipper. It's grating.

"Fine." Danny's legs are tired from the hour and a half in the pool followed by the walk here, and with the muscles tight when he sits it's more like a flop, the chair scraping back against the hardwood enough to make him wince.

She eyes him neutrally and joins him in the sitting area, writing tablet clutched in her hand. If she's waiting on him to start his own torture they'll sit here in silence for the next hour. "You seem tense today. Everything alright?"

"Fine."

She smirks at him and it's irritating enough he takes the bait. "What?"

"Nothing. Monosyllabic. You are clearly fine." She's openly smiling at him now and aren't shrinks supposed to be less antagonistic?

Danny pushes a hand in his hair and decides to be honest. "Look, no offense, but I don't think this is helping. As a matter of fact, coming here is actively making me feel worse. I'd rather be basically anywhere but here right now."

"It's overwhelming when you come here? Painful? Where it takes days and days to recover before having to do it all again?" she asks, her voice sounding completely non-judgmental.

Danny sits up a little straighter. "Yeah. That's it exactly. It's nothing against you. You're nice enough and all. I'm glad you understand. So, should I just go? Or?..."

Dr. Franklin crosses her legs and there's a twinkle in her almond-shaped eyes he doesn't like. It gives him a weird feeling like she knows something he doesn't and he's playing somehow into her hand. "You're an OB/GYN, right?"

"Yeah."

"On average how many breast exams do you administer on a weekly basis?"

It's lame that the question makes him nervous. His swallows hard and really wishes he knew where she is heading with this. "Um. I don't know. Depending on if I have deliveries that week . . . a lot, I guess."

"And when you give an exam and you find a lump or abnormality that hurts the patient when you press on it what do you do?"

Is she asking for free medical advice? Because he's not using up the rest of his hour and copay because she's overdue with her gynecologist. "Well, if there's a lump we'd do x-rays and then probably a biopsy. Then surgery if needed. Do you need an appointment? Because there are some of my colleagues I can recommend."

"No," she chuckles, and he's making this way worse for himself and he's not even sure how. "I just wanted to be clear - if you have a patient who has an issue that hurt when you pressed it, your advice wouldn't be to just 'not press it', but to actually find out the cause of the pain and remove it."

Fuck.

He hates everything.

"Fine."

"Back to fine. We are making some excellent progress today."

He pushes out of the chair and strides over the the fireplace, just wanting to get away but feeling too caught to actually storm out. "What do you want me to say? You got me. I'm a chickenshit if I leave now. Are you happy?"

"No."

"Well then what the hell do you want from me?!"

She turns in her seat to address him. "I want you to be smart and put the same amount of work into yourself as you would your own patients. And it would be nice if maybe you would stop looking at this like some kind of trick or sham, and treat it like the healthy medical solution to what is too painful for you to even touch right now."

"Fine. Not fine - I mean -" Danny sighs and tries not to sound petulant. "Tell me what to do. How do I fix this?"

"Well, you can't just 'fix' it."

"Then what's the point?" he growls. So much for not sounding petulant.

"You can't just fix it; can't erase the things in your life that have hurt you. But you can work towards mending them. So that's what you do. You work."

* * *

He's always been better with paper and ink. Typing is a hassle. It has nothing to do with him being bad at it. Danny thumps the end of the pen on the lined yellow paper and wonders if it's cheating if he pours himself a drink before he starts.

Probably.

He does it anyway. Doc didn't say he couldn't lube his words up first.

It startled him when she suggested he write letters, like somehow she knew he already did and was testing him. It's a real thing though apparently, a technique used to help find the source of a problem and work through it. Danny's supposed to write, without necessarily sending them, letters to everyone whose relationship has caused any underlying issues in his life. Then he's supposed to do the same to all of the people whose lives he feels like he may have had a similar negative impact. He is supposed to try and at least go through the motions of making amends with all those who have hurt him, and those whom he has hurt.

It isn't the easiest thing he's ever done, but Danny can write the letters to the people who've hurt him. He writes them out, page after page. One to Christina, one to his dad, to Derek Sabria from middle school who used to beat the shit out of him for taking dance, to his priest from his catechism class. Even one to his mom, for hurts real but too petty to ever say to her. He burns them all except for the one to his dad. That one he folds as many times as possible, making it small and thick, and then shoves it into the middle of one of his copies of Catcher In The Rye. It will break the spine.

Then he gets to work on some tougher ones. Like the letter he really doesn't want to write to Christina admitting that maybe he could have been a better husband and that neither of their failed attempts to be together landed solely on her shoulders. He burns that one the fastest. Even though every word is true and he is genuinely over her, Danny still doesn't want to allow even the slimmest possibility she may ever have the satisfaction of reading his regrets.

The letter he writes to Pinky Simpson he thinks very seriously about sending before deciding it would probably do more to ease Danny's conscience than it would make the other man feel better. In 7th grade after Pinky, so called because of his round cheeks permanently stained red due to rosacea, made some crack he doesn't even remember now, Danny called him a faggot in front of their whole grade. Everyone laughed except Danny and Pinky. It felt bad at the time and he always meant to apologize, but was too chicken to bring it up. When Richie came out Danny's sophomore year of college the memory lodged somewhere in his heart and he hasn't been able to move it since. He saves that letter thinking maybe he'll give it to Richie as an apology for a million different dickheads like himself who have said the same kind of ignorant things to his baby brother.

It takes him a long time to get through them all, but he does it.

Almost.

There's one letter though, one that deserves him giving a really good explanation, that he can't write. Which is weird; he's never had a hard time writing to her before.

It remains unwritten for nearly three weeks. Danny puts it off until it festers so much it hurts without even having to push on it. He has to get good and drunk to even start.

* * *

She has gotten very good at schooling her features. When she sees him on the train, on the mornings she's running too late to alter her schedule to avoid him, Mindy falters only a single second before plastering her face with what looks almost like a genuine smile.

This morning it's less than a second, if he even saw it at all. Mindy looks happy to see him and it makes his heart feel light and the folded pieces of paper he's transferred from pants pocket to pants pocket for more than a month now feel as heavy as a stone.

Danny would tell her, would give her all of the words written out in a shaky, drunken scrawl that may or may not be smudged with tears, if it wasn't for the fact that he would do anything at all right now to keep her smiling at him like this forever.

* * *

"Hey, Danny, I was -" She pushes his door open slightly just as he's adjusting the messenger bag strap over his shoulder. "Oh. You're heading out. Never mind."

"No, I'm - Well I was just going to . . go to the gym," he lies. "What's up?" He jerks the bag over his head again and tosses it on his desk.

"Nothing. Doesn't matter. I was just going to see if you wanted to grab a very late lunch. We can go some other time."

She's already down the hall, out of view, when the moment comes where he can't wait anymore. "Mindy!"

"What?" She comes striding back into the room with a frown pulling down at her brow but a smile playing at her lips. Mindy's looking at him like he's crazy and somehow that makes it easier to admit that maybe he is a little.

"I, uh." Danny fumbles with the words as he fumbles pulling the paper out of his pocket. "I'm not actually going to the gym. It's something else. An appointment. Um." He walks around to the door, grabbing his bag back off his desk hastily, not wanting to be late. "Here. This is for you."

Mindy begins to unfold the edges, all four corners worn down from being shuffled around. "Don't read it now," he says. "Do it later, when you're alone maybe. It will explain some things."

"Danny, are you okay? 'Cause you're starting to freak me out a little. Oh God!" Her hand flies to her mouth, eyes wide. "You're not dying are you? Danny, you'd tell me if you were dying. Is this your will? Here, take it back. Take it back."

She shoves the paper against his chest and he barely catches it before she pulls her hand away. "Mindy-"

"I don't care if you left me everything. Whatever it is, you're going to make it."

"Mindy. Stop. I'm not dying."

"Oh."

"And this isn't my will." He pushes the letter back in her hand.

"That was a mean joke to pull then. Why would you do something like that, Danny?"

"I never -" he stops, not having time to get sucked into this. "Just read it later. Okay?"

"Yeah, sure." She's bobbing her head, her eyes still regarding him sharply. "Promise me you're fine first, though."

"I'm fine - well." He can't help smirk a little, hopeful. "I'm going to be fine. I'm working on it."


	3. Chapter 3

Jon the receptionist tells him he can go back and Danny stands, tucking the sports section into the pocket of his bag before remembering it's not his newspaper and tossing it back on the low coffee table in the waiting area.

There's light slanting through the west-facing window and it's warm, making Dr. Franklin's office feel almost pleasant. It's a feeling he would have never associated with this place a few months ago. Today? Today it feels almost like a relief to be here.

"You look intense, Doc." Danny takes his normal seat opposite her and watches as her face relaxes and she drops the pen from its poised position and looks up.

"This is impossible," she says, frustration blended with laughter lilting her voice as she takes the folded bit of New York Times resting on the writing portfolio in her lap and waves it. "I don't know why I ever think doing the Expert Level Sudoku's will be relaxing. A couple numbers in and then I'm stumped."

She chucks the paper onto the wide brick windowsill and Danny leans forward to look, hands clasped in his lap. Doc isn't wrong; she's only filled in 5 numbers so far. "Maybe next time try the Beginners."

"Yeah, yeah," she grumbles, adjusting the cuff of her blouse. "Enough about my ineptitude in counting to nine repeatedly - how are you doing today, Danny?"

He takes a deep breath and measures his words before he says them, making sure he means what he's saying. "I'm good. Today I think I'm really good."

"That sounds very positive. What about today makes you feel that way?"

Danny inhales and tries to pinpoint the feeling that's making his chest light for the first time in a long time. It isn't that hard to do, and the words come so much easier now that he knows it doesn't really matter how he phrases it - just as long as he tells the truth.

"I did something either pretty brave today, or something really stupid. It's too soon to tell. Either way it goes, I feel better. Lighter."

"That's excellent. And it's good that regardless of the outcome you still feel like you did the right thing."

Dr. Franklin doesn't say anything else, doesn't ask him a question, and he's used to that by now. It's smart. You can get a lot of information out of someone by simply being quiet. People always want to fill that void. Danny's never made it more than two minutes before breaking down and volunteering information again.

"I - uh. You remember how you had me write all those letters to people?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Well, I destroyed most of them right after I wrote them. But there were a couple I kept. One - the one to my friend from work - I've been carrying that one around ever since, waiting for the right time to give it to her."

"And did you find the right time?"

"No," he says with a surprised chuckle. "Turns out there's never a right time to lay your heart painfully open. It took me two months to figure that out. So I did it anyway. Today."

"What made you do it?"

The question surprises him for some reason, his brain already five steps beyond the 'why'. "Um. I almost didn't. There were a few different times I had talked myself into getting rid of it. I actually threw it in the trash at work one day but then I was afraid somehow she'd see it or someone would try and mail it against my will."

Doc pulls a face at him and it's too much to go back and explain. "Doesn't matter. Anyway, I couldn't do it."

"Why do you think that is?"

"Because then it would be over. If I didn't have the guts to be honest with her then we'd be over."

"That's a pretty good reason to give it to her."

Danny shrugs. "I love her."

"I can tell. She knows that?"

"Yeah. And if she didn't, she will once she reads that letter."

"Well, I think no matter how she reacts it was definitely brave."

The corner of his lips pull up and he wonders for the millionth time in the short span of minutes since he handed it to her if she's read it yet. "Her name's Mindy. I don't think I ever told you that."

"Ha, really? No. You never told me that." She shakes her head, laughing. "No wonder you looked so freaked out when I introduced myself."

"Right?! I thought Richie planned it and was messing with me." Danny exhales with a huff and watches as dust particles get caught in the afternoon sunlight. "You'd like her, my Mindy."

"Tell me about her."

He does. Danny talks about Mindy, about how terrifying it is to fall for your best friend, about how he fucked things up. Danny talks a lot about how he can make things right.

Before he knows it there's a soft electronic beep as the clock hits 4:00, and his hour is up. Danny sighs, surprisingly a little disappointed the session is over, and thinks maybe he needs more friends. Maybe it would help to talk to someone other than a professional about his life - the good stuff along with the bad.

Dr. Franklin stands, clutching the sable-colored leather writing portfolio to her side. "I'll see you in two weeks, same time."

Danny's all the way to the door when he stops and turns back to her. "Thanks for everything. For today and . . . just everything."

She smiles back at him, tight-lipped and a little proud, and nods. "You're welcome."

"Oh," he adds as he turns the doorknob, glancing back to the abandoned puzzle. "That 1 you've got in the first box should be a 7."

"What? Seriously?" Danny can hear her jerk the newspaper off the windowsill as he walks down the hall.

* * *

There are four text messages, one missed call and a voicemail when he stops on the sidewalk outside the doctor's office to turn the volume back up on his phone. All from Mindy.

* * *

"You're in therapy?"

"Hello to you too." Danny loops the handle of his messenger bag over the back of the high barstool before he sits down. The coffee shop is crowded and it's slightly miraculous she found two seats at the bar along the window.

Mindy's frowning at him severely, mouth set and eyes wide, and is apparently immune to his attempt at humor. The words come easier than he imagined. "Yes. I'm in therapy."

"Because of me?"

"What? No.

"Good! You don't get to have therapy about me. I should get to have therapy about you." She says it jokingly but it just reminds him of all the many and varied ways he's hurt her.

"It isn't because of you. There's a lot of reasons, other things. Stuff I should have worked through a long time ago." He watches her closely. "But you have come up."

"Oh."

"Mrs. Chris Evans?" the barista bellows.

"That's our order." Mindy grins a little sheepishly.

"Yeah. I figured that out actually." He smiles back at her. She starts to slide off the stool but he places a hand on her shoulder. "I'll get it."

The guy behind the counter raises an eyebrow at Danny picking the cups with that name emblazoned in grease pencil across them before smirking knowingly. This is what life with Mindy is like, he thinks. It's having her too-bright Technicolor splashed across his gray. The barista winks at him. And screw it; Danny winks back.

Mindy knows his order, which is just a large black coffee with one packet of raw sugar, but still. He likes that she remembers. And that she doesn't try and get him to be more adventurous. The cups are hot even through the cardboard sleeves.

"Here." He places the double-shot caramel macchiato in front of her, and Mindy's face has taken on that pinched look of seriousness again.

"How did I come up in your therapy sessions?" she asks as he sits, voice low and firm at the same time.

"You're important to me. And," Danny swallows and rubs the palm of his hand on his jeans, "a lot of the things I messed up in our relationship had to do with other stuff. Things I was carrying around that I thought I had a handle on."

Danny takes a long swig of coffee and it singes his tongue. "It may have been pointed out to me by my very smart little brother that I was miserable and if I wanted that to change then I had to be the one to do it."

"You're miserable?"

"I was." Mindy gently touches the tips of her fingers to the top of his hand where it rests on the counter. It shoots a spark through his skin. He's missed her touch. "I miss you."

"You see me everyday," she shakes her head, and suddenly he's afraid that's how this is going to go. Maybe this isn't a second chance. Maybe this is closure. He has to at least make sure she knows that's not what he wants.

Danny flips his hand under hers and strokes the bones of her wrist. "Mindy, I miss you."

She looks down at their hands and when she looks back up at him there are tears in her eyes. She whispers, her voice watery, "I miss you, too."

"Yeah?"

Mindy shrugs, head bobbing in a way that says, 'duh, you idiot, of course I miss you'. "Did you mean what you said in your letter?"

"Of course I did. And I know it's not enough to make up for everything, but -" Danny takes a shaky breath. "I'm sorry for the way I treated you, the way I ended things with no explanation. You deserved to know. You deserve so much better than that."

"So give it to me," she says, squeezing his hand and smiling hopefully at him. "This time actually talk to me."

This time.

"I can do that."


	4. Chapter 4

The fragrance of ginger, hot chili, and fresh mint fills his nose and his apartment. Danny pulls the cork from the bottle of wine and tries to sneak a peek at what's happening on the stove.

"Ugh, get. Go. I told you I'm no good at this if you hover." Mindy swats him away. Her face is pulled in a way that looks exactly like her mid-surgery-level-concentration face. And it's adorable. He kisses the side of her neck and it makes her momentarily forget to continue pushing him out of the kitchen. Her skin tastes like the lemon she just juiced.

She sways into him and he tosses the corkscrew, cork still threaded on it, onto the counter so he can loop his arms around her waist. "Tell me what we're having again."

"It's called Murgh Makhanwala."

"Yeah, you told me that. But what is it?"

"It's basically chicken in a savory tomato sauce. Although there's clearly nothing basic about it. There's like five million different steps and ingredients. How did my mother come in after work and make this every Tuesday night?"

"Mom's are good like that. I think it's 'cause they do it all the time." Danny draws his hands over her stomach and places a kiss behind her ear. "This is good practice. You'll have to get faster whenever we have a kid."

Mindy turns her face into his neck and he can feel her eyelashes against his skin when she blinks. His gaze falls to the counter and the mess strewn everywhere, and Danny wouldn't mind doing this every Tuesday night. Only -

"Min, that seems like a awful lot of butter. Are you sure you've got the amount right?"

"It literally means Butter Chicken. Okay, out. Stop distracting me with your mouth and your words. Scram." She pushes him away, but not before he steals another kiss. "Go pour the wine."

He's pulling the stemware from the cupboard when his phone rings.

"Hey, Richie," he answers.

"Hey, bro. How are you?"

"Good." Danny wedges the phone between his shoulder and ear while he pours the wine then hands Mindy her glass. "I'm good. You?"

"Great. We're about to leave for a booze cruise for the night."

"Sounds like fun." And it does, in a way. Though nothing sounds more appealing right now than the wine in his hand and the woman in his kitchen.

"What are you up to tonight?"

"Staying in. Mindy's making -" he drops the phone away from his mouth. "What is it called again?"

"Murgh Makhanwala."

"Right," he pushes the phone back. "Mindy's making Murgh Makhanwala."

"Oh, God. I haven't had that since the good Indian place off Dade Boulevard closed. Ask her if she'll make it next time I'm home."

"She'll make it. She's having to practice." Mindy throws the dishtowel at his face. He misses the towel but catches her smile.

"That's awesome, I appreciate it." The line goes quiet and Danny's about to check if the call got disconnected. "Listen. I uh, I talked to Dad."

Danny's stomach tightens against his will. "Okay..."

"He said he got a letter from you?"

It's been six weeks since Danny had Mindy read the letter he wrote to his father. Six weeks since they stayed up until 3:00am talking about their childhoods and crying and making promises to each other to be good parents. He had taken a deep breath and mailed it the next day.

Danny grits his teeth. "Yeah, I sent him a letter a while back."

"You must have said a lot of heavy stuff in there." Richie's voice is soft and it's the only thing that keeps Danny from ripping into that comment.

"There was a lot of heavy stuff to talk about, Rich. And you were the one who told me to go to therapy and get all this off my chest."

"No, Danny, I know. I wasn't saying anything about it. I'm glad you finally told him how you feel. And you know - all of it, not just the surface stuff."

"Okay, yeah. Good."

"I wanted to tell you he got it. In case you were wondering. He seemed a little - I don't know - freaked about it or something. I don't think he knew how to take it."

"Well that's his fucking problem."

"Totally. I just - I got the feeling he wasn't going to be talking to you about it anytime soon. And I didn't want you wondering. I thought you should know."

"Thanks."

"How does it feel putting it all out there?"

Danny scratches a hand into his hair and looks up, catching Mindy watching him. She gives him a little closed-lipped smile before going back to grating cucumber. "Honestly, it feels pretty damn good, man."

* * *

Once winter comes Danny realizes just how drafty Dr. Franklin's office is. There are gaps in the mortar and there's enough cold air bleeding in from the original leaded glass windows it's making the hair on his arm dance. It makes him wish the fireplace wasn't bricked-in.

"I talked to my dad a few nights ago."

"How did that go?"

Danny shoves both his hands under his thighs to keep them warm. "It went the way it's been going. He answered, said he was fine when I asked, and then immediately gave the phone to my sister."

"Has he still not said anything about the letter?" Dr. Franklin asks.

"No. Not to me, anyway." Danny tries not to sound bitter.

"Why do you think that is?"

He scoffs and this time doesn't even try to censor how it sounds. "Because he's a chickenshit. It's the same reason why he left. He doesn't know how to be a man."

She jots something on her pad and he hopes she's writing that down, word for word. It should be a helpful key: Alan Castellano = Chickenshit/Not A Man

"Do you want to talk to him about it?"

"Yes. Or - not really. But some acknowledgement would be nice. Why can he talk to Richie about it and not me?"

"Maybe he's scared of what you'll say."

"He should be. I told you, he's a coward."

"Okay. Danny, let me ask you something. And I want you to think about it before you answer. Why do you want to have a relationship with this man?"

He doesn't. That's his answer. He doesn't want to have a relationship with a man who could abandon him and his kid brother and then go off and start another family like it never happened. Like they never happened.

"I don't," he finally mumbles.

"Do you mean that, honestly?"

He's pissed to find a few tears dripping down to his chin and he swipes at them. "Yeah. I do. I don't need him in my life, and I haven't for a long time. And there was a little while where I thought maybe I wanted him to be a part of my life, but -" he shrugs. "I think it was more about what you've said before, about validation. It was more about that than it was him. You know?"

"Yeah, I do." Dr. Franklin clicks her pen over and over before sighing and leaning all the way back in the chair, her hair a dark halo against the leather of the sleek wingback. "Don't do it, then."

"What?"

"If you truly feel that way, then don't put yourself under pressure to build a relationship with him."

It's his dad, though. Regardless of if he likes it or not, Danny's got a half-sister and a whole side to his family that's new. "Shouldn't I at least try?"

"Isn't that what you have been doing? Listen, I don't want you to misunderstand what I'm saying. It would be good if you could communicate with your father. For both of you. And I'm not saying that I think you should put away the idea or write him off. All I'm saying is, you've done your part."

Danny nods his head in half-hearted agreement, picking at the seem of his jeans. It doesn't feel like he's done enough if nothing's fixed.

"You can't force your father into being a better person or take responsibility for him not making an effort now, no more than you can fault yourself for him leaving in the first place. You told him how you felt and you were honest. And you've left those channels of communication open. It's enough. Danny, it's time to stop feeling guilty about your dad's shortcomings."

"Yeah?" his throat is rough, closed up, and he has to clear it before he can continue. "How do I do that, Doc?"

She chuckles. "Time. And therapy."

* * *

** Notes:**

_There has been such an amazing outpouring of love and support for this story. I am overwhelmed. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart._


End file.
